


Doom, Despair, and Agony on Me (2015)

by okapi



Series: July Watson's Woes Prompts [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:03:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 14,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4314987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My daily entries for the Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts. All chapters stand alone. Ficlet length (100 to 1000 words). Check chapter summary for prompt, rating and tags. Mostly gen-rated. Mostly Sherlock/John pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tempting Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Tempting Fate. "What's the worst that could happen?" Use this however it inspires you.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock/John  
>  **Tags:** Mythology AU, Crack  
>  **Summary:** Sherlock plays truant and meets John for the first time.

“Where’s Sherlock?” asked Mycroft.

“How would I know?” responded Sherrinford. “Down by the river?”

“He is holding up business, as usual.” Mycroft eyed the long thread. It was laid carefully in a snake-like twist around the workshop floor and marked at various points by dark smudges. “You’ve spun our day’s allotment. I’ve measured them. Now, it’s up to Sherlock do the cutting. And, of course, he’s nowhere to be found.”

“You could speak to Zeus,” suggested Sherrinford. The brothers shared a knowing glance that said ‘more harm than good.’

 

“Bored, bored, bored!” cried Sherlock, staring up at the clouds. He was lying on a raft of his own making tethered to a tree on the nearby riverbank. “You’d think choosing the manner of mortals’ deaths and cutting their life-threads would never grow old. Wrong! Of course, mortals think that I’m the worst thing that can happen to them, but nothing ever happens to _me_! And that is the worst!”

Just then, a strong wind came up and loosened the raft from its mooring. Sherlock noticed the clouds floating swiftly by, and then he realized that it was not the clouds moving, but himself.

“Oh bother!” Sherlock’s first thought was to swim for shore, but then he considered. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Something different. He decided to wait and see where the river took him.

Sherlock heard him before he saw him: it was the worst pan flute playing he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. Really! What a poor sod! But then the performer came into view, and Sherlock’s mouth went dry.

It was the most beautiful satyr he’d ever seen, bathing by the water’s edge. “Excuse me,” said Sherlock as he drifted into the creature’s view.

The satyr was startled. “Oh, hello! Who are you?”

“Um, my first name is Atropos, but I prefer to be called Sherlock.”

“Atropos? The Fate? The cutter of the life thread?”

“Um, yes.” The current kept pulling Sherlock further along, past the creature. He scurried to the far edge of the raft, threatening to topple it. “Who are you? Your flute-playing is horrid. I could teach you a bit of musicality, if you’d like.”

“I’m John,” said the satyr, with an amused smile. He waved as Sherlock floated away.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” called Sherlock behind him.

The satyr frowned and called back, “Bathing? Playing the pan-flute horridly?”

“No. Tempting a Fate!”

And with that Sherlock dove into the water and began to swim.

 

 

Many hours later, the two lay side by side on the river bank.

“Not that I’m complaining,” said the satyr. “But don’t you have work to do?”

“What’s the worst thing that could happen? They all die tomorrow,” replied Sherlock; then he rolled closer and covered John’s lips with his own.


	2. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Yellow. Use the color as your inspiration for today's entry: anything from the sun, to John wearing a mustard yellow jumper, to yellow ribbons tied in a tree.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock/John  
>  **Tags:** Dom/Sub Themes, Dom Sherlock, Sub John  
>  **Summary:** Sherlock loves yellow.

“Yellow,” breathed John.

“Yellow,” Sherlock repeated in as even a tone as he could manage.

Yellow! Yellow! Sherlock loved yellow. 

Yellow was not green. Sherlock liked green, and if they spent the whole of their play in the green, well, that was satisfactory, much more than satisfactory. 

But yellow! Yellow was a different matter altogether. Yellow meant ‘proceed, but proceed with caution.’ 

Yellow meant —Sherlock’s favourite—new data. New data about John. Yellow meant that Sherlock was pushing John’s boundaries. And that was the beauty of John, that he let Sherlock push his boundaries, explore the zones where pleasure and pain met and blurred. Sherlock felt like Vasca da Fucking Gama, exploring new worlds, uncharted territories, drawing an outline of Indonesia, where there once had only been the silly phrase ‘Here There Be Dragon.’

Sherlock had to respect yellow, of course, because yellow could lead to red, and Sherlock did not like red. He honoured red, naturally; he’d be a sadist and not a dom if he didn’t. But red meant that John had reached his limit and play was over. And there was small, but real, possibility that red meant that John was harmed, in some tangible or—infinitely more distressing—intangible way. 

And Sherlock never wished to harm John. The whole point of play was to hurt, but _not_ harm John. 

Yellow required supreme concentration. Yellow required subtle movements and careful calculation, timing and precision. Yellow challenged Sherlock as much as it humbled him. Yellow was science and philosophy and, yes, a little bit of pirate bravado. 

Sherlock focused his mind, blocking out everything that was not John. 

Everything that was not yellow.


	3. Leaf with Skull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Picture, [leaf with skull](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1282916.html)  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock/John  
>  **Summary:** John sees a warning on the window.

Cup of tea in hand, John yawned. He walked to the window and drew back the curtain.  
CRASH!  
He didn’t notice the shattered porcelain on the floor or the Tippy Assam on his slippers.  
All he could see was the leaf, with one-half of a menacing skull carved into its brittle brown film, plastered to the glass.  
He smelled chlorine. He felt the weight of Semtex on his chest. He saw red dots dancing.  
Moriarty.  
A warning.  
He flew up the bedroom stairs, grabbed the Browning, and flew back down.  
His body froze, his gaze fixed on the leaf, but his mind raced.  
Alert Mycroft.  
Send Mrs. Hudson to her sister’s.  
Make sure Sherlock doesn’t do anything stupid…  
Two strong arms wound round John’s waist. He felt a pair of lips on his neck.  
“G’morning. What? We going into battle already? Haven’t had my tea yet. Yours is all over the floor. Hmm.”  
“Sherlock…” John nodded to the window. “Look at that.”  
“Do you like it? Youtube. For the Hallows’ Eve party.”  
John deflated. “Christ Almighty, I am an idiot.”  
“Practically everyone is. So, tea?"


	4. The Well-Travelled Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** The Well-Travelled Watson. "Travel and foreign lands." Use this however it inspires you.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock/John  
>  **Summary:** John reminisces in front of the Great Wall of Tea.

“Sir has the look of a connoisseur.”

John smiled. “Impressive display.”

And it was: floor-to-ceiling shelves with tins lined in neat rows like troops on parade. Different colours, black, silver, green, russet, but all labelled in the same elegant calligraphy.

“We import only the highest quality teas and herbal preparations from around the world. Sir is with the, uh, party outside?”

John’s gaze followed the shopkeeper’s to the large plate-glass window at the front of the shop and beyond to the scene in the street: yellow-and-black caution tape, officers milling about, blue-suited SOCOs scurrying like ants, curious onlookers starting to gather, and, in the middle of it all, a Belstaff-winged moth flitting and fluttering.

“Sort of.”

“Does sir know when…?”

“Ah, I expect it’s bad for business, having a murder right outside your doorstep, no? I do know it’ll be resolved quickly, but I’m not sure when the police will reopen the street.”

“It’s just that we’re expecting some deliveries. Ah, well, I’ll leave you to your browsing. Please let me know if you have any questions.”

John gave the man a cordial nod and returned his attention to the Great Wall of Tea. 

Where to start? Where one always started with tea. China, where tea began. Then to India where it was refined. And on to Ceylon, where, in John’s humble opinion, it was perfected. To Japan, where it was poetry and Kenya, where it was history. That tea was tea, but there was also among the tins, the South African rooibos and the Argentine mate. Even a bright chamomile.

John considered the light oolongs and smoky pu-erhs and sweet darjeelings and rich orange pekoes; then his thoughts wandered. 

To the taste of skin. To the sighs and the moans. To exclamations in foreign tongues. To the tongues! To cool nights and sheets damp with sweat. To morning light filtering sweetly and monsoon rains obscuring the world like a heavy curtain. To dust and sand and even the occasional insect in places where they shouldn’t be. 

To wet mouths covering nipples, to nails digging into backs and grazing buttocks, to asking for more, begging for more, giving more. To falling asleep in arms and waking to gentle snores.

Was he romanticizing? Of course he was. There had been awkward moments, angry interruptions, cutting words in languages that he didn’t need to speak in order to understand, bitter good-byes. 

He felt something being thrust in his hand. A basket. The shopkeeper flashed a postcard. 

“Would sir like to leave his contact information? Then we could alert him to new inventory, special events…” 

The bell over the shop door jingled. 

WHOOSH!

“Would sir like to sample some of our more exotic varieties?” 

A deep baritone interjected, “Sir will take one of these,” a tin of English Breakfast dropped into the basket, “and one of these,” followed by an Earl Grey, “and nothing else for the rest of his mortal days.”

“I’m afraid my sampling days are over,” John said with a wink.


	5. Note to Self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Note to Self. Anything from a pencil jot on a paper cuff or a string on a finger to a modern sticky note or a cell phone alarm. Doesn't matter who the writer is, so long as there's something he/she needs a reminder for.  
>  **Rating:** Mature for Mental Illness and Death Theme  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock/John  
>  **Tags:** Mental Illness, Delusion, Dark, Death Theme  
>  **Summary:** After an alternate ending to TGG, Sherlock develops Cotard's Delusion (aka Walking Corpse Syndrome); John is his reminder.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Of this, he was certain.

His chest did not rise and fall. His stomach and intestines did not rumble. He felt nothing in his arms and legs: no pain, no heat, no cold. He felt neither hunger, nor thirst, nor fatigue, nor any other corporal sensation.

He felt nothing.

How had he arrived at this state? He cast his mind back.

A pool. A vest. A gun. A threat. A counter-threat. An explosion.

But wait—before the explosion, there was a nod. A nod that said, “Do it. I am with you.”

Had John survived? Had he leapt in the pool and escaped the blast? Or by some miracle of engineering and physics and modern medicine, had he avoided injury entirely?

Sherlock was torn. He would have sacrificed every fibre of his being to spare his beloved from harm, but the idea of existing (not existing?) in a universe separate from John brought him to despair.

Perhaps he was a ghost or another kind of spirit and he could find a way to communicate with John. Or if John had perished like himself, then he would locate him amongst the non-living in whatever sphere he found himself. Sherlock did not want to contemplate the possibility that they had both died at the pool and were to be estranged, by their natures, for the rest of eternity. God—John’s God, for Sherlock himself worshipped no deities but Science and Logic—would not be so cruel.

Sherlock Holmes did not open his eyes for he had no eyes to open. But he became aware, very shortly, that he was in his bedroom in the Baker Street flat.

He almost laughed. The afterlife was 221B!

Sherlock’s blood had drained, his internal organs melted and oozed from his orifices, his flesh was putrefying in this coffin, which was a perfect facsimile of his mortal bed. The one he and John had shared.

Interesting.

The door opened.

Sherlock’s heart did not leap for he had no heart to leap, but the sight of John carrying a morning tray with tea and toast and jam filled him with delight. And then despondency.

“John, I am so sorry to have caused your demise—“

“Good morning, Sherlock,” said John. The warmth of his voice and his smile were belied by the dark smudges beneath his eyes and pinched creases across his forehead. He sighed, and Sherlock recognized the noise as one that usually accompanied a domestic disaster brought about by his perennial quest for knowledge of the physical world, a world beyond him now, he lamented.

“You are not dead, love.”

“I most certainly am. I have no breath, no pulse, no synapses firing—“

“And neither am I. We both survived the blast at the pool. Well, I have a little trouble with my left ear, but nothing of major consequence. Eat a bit of breakfast.”

“John, I have no need for sustenance. I have no physical presence to maintain.”

“Humour me. Pretend to chew and swallow everything here.”

Sherlock frowned. “For you, John,” he finally conceded.

“Yes, for me, Sherlock. I am here to remind you that you’re alive. Every day. All day. Until you need no more reminding.”

“John, I am nothing, I feel nothing, I am mere dust held together loosely by a husk that will surely decompose completely in time.”

John’s smile did not falter as he set the tray down on the bed and leaned forward. Closer. Closer. That beautiful mouth approached.

Bliss.

“Did you feel that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Those were your lips kissing mine. And I assure you that your synapses are firing. Read those after you eat,” he pointed to the bedside table, where a formidable stack of books and journals stood, all with protruding yellow tabs, “and then we’ll get dressed and see if Lestrade has anything interesting for us today.”

“John…”

“I know it’s confusing, love. But eat, and then read, and then you’ll realize what’s going on. And then we’ll start our day. And if there’s no case, well…”

“Well?”

Sherlock was still confounded by what he knew to be true and what John was telling—and showing—him.

“I’ll remind you for the rest of the day just how alive you are.” He wiggled his eyebrows in that manner that never failed to charm.

Sherlock heard a noise. Laughter? His own? How could it be…?

John lifted Sherlock’s fingers to his lips. “Sherlock Holmes is not dead.”

“Extraordinary.”


	6. Imitate the Actions of a Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Quotation Prompt. "Imitate the actions of a tiger." --Shakespeare, Henry V  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock  & John  
>  **Summary:** John's thoughts as he takes aim at the end of ASiP.

The last time he’d raised his gun in defence of another, he’d been a soldier at war. But clearly a man’s life was at stake. The life of the most singular man he’d ever met. 

The John Watson of the broken body and the broken mind, of the nightmares and the limp, would shrink from such an action. ‘Enough trouble for a lifetime. Far too much,’ he’d said, and he meant it. 

 

But in this moment, he knew he could not shrink. He had to imitate the actions of a tiger: sharpen his claws, stalk his prey, and make his kill.

 

“SHERLOCK!”

 

He took aim and fired. 

 

‘Oh God, yes,’ he’d said, and he meant that, too.


	7. Unwanted Attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Unwanted Attention. Whether it's a client gone stalkerish or a secret admirer who won't take a hint, one of the characters must cope with unwanted advances. How he/she deals with it and what happens is up to you.  
>  **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock/John  
>  **Tags:** Jealous Sherlock  
>  **Summary:** Oblivious John gets some unwanted attention at a crime scene; jealous Sherlock confronts him at home.

“Sherlock?! Are you home?” John bounded up the stairs. “What is wrong? It’s been a long time since you abandoned me at a crime scene! Sherlock? Sher--“

_WHAM!_

Sherlock breathed in his ear, “Did you like the attention that you were getting tonight? _I_ didn’t.”

“W-w-what are you talking about?” John turned his head. Sherlock’s hand was flat to the wall; his arm was draped in scarlet.

Dressing gown. The red silk.

John swallowed.

Not the blue silk, which was Sherlock’s everyday gown. Not the other blue silk, which was brought out when the everyday was in for laundering. Not the flannel, which was typically worn while conducting experiments that might result in the fire brigade being summoned. Not the camel-coloured cashmere wool with the tassels, which appeared when Sherlock was feeling especially romantic and wanted to give the impression of a Byronic hero, such as for first-time clients.

The red silk rarely saw the light of day. Or night, as it were. The red silk aptly brought to mind a matador’s cape, but in this particular instance, Sherlock was both bull and cape. And John suspected he was the one about to be gored.

“Sherlock?” John made to turn, but Sherlock pressed the full length of his body against John’s and held him fast against the wall.

“The barman.”

“Because he gave me some Shepherd’s Pie?! Is that what passes for flirting these days? Look: it was pissing rain and I was freezing my bollocks off _and_ serving no discernible purpose so I thought I’d pop in that pub before it closed while you were doing your thing. And _I told you all of this_ , but you obviously deleted it.”

“And then you got to _chatting_ ,” hissed Sherlock.

“He was closing up. He asked me if I was hungry, and I said yes—because I was, _because I’d been out in the pissing, freezing rain for hours_ —and he brought out a plate. End of story. There was no chatting, at least not of the kind that you’re implying. I think I’d know.” John laughed.

“Really? Then tell me why,” Sherlock reached into John’s jacket pocket and then spread the crumpled blue sheet on the wall, “Kieran’s number is on this flyer!”

John gasped. “Fuck me!” he said under his breath.

“Oh, I intend to,” said Sherlock, running a hand up the inside of John’s leg. “I intend to take you apart, piece by piece, until _Kieran_ ,” Sherlock sneered, “and his precious Shepherd’s Pie are no longer part of your vocabulary.”

“Sherlock, I didn’t ask that bloke for his number. He asked me if I go to pub nights, I said yes, and he gave me that flyer for the pub. I didn’t even look at it. I just shoved it in my pocket because I realized that you were gone and I went to ask Lestrade where you’d got to.”

Sherlock’s voice dropped. “Oh, I’ll let you plead your case.” His hand was now cupping John’s cock through his jeans. “You’ll be pleading a lot, begging too.”

John shivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan is for this scene to reappear in a dressing gown-themed Femlock 5+1.


	8. The Ballad of Reading Gaol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** The Ballad of Reading Gaol  
>  "I never saw a man who looked  
> With such a wistful eye  
> Upon that little tent of blue  
> Which prisoners call the sky,  
> And at every drifting cloud that went  
> With sails of silver by."  
> \--Oscar Wilde  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** John/Moriarty  
>  **Summary:** John's thoughts as he looks down at the court proceedings in TRF.

John crossed his arms and looked down at the proceedings. His gaze was directed towards Sherlock in the witness box, but his attention, well, his attention was on the grey speck in his peripheral vision: the accused. 

 

It was only the second time he’d ever seen him, but the man—or should he call him a spider, as Sherlock just had—certainly knew how to make an impression. 

 

At their last—and first—meeting, they’d had a moment, an exchange, meeting of the minds, if you will, after the lights-out and before the Semtex. Sizing each other up, much like wolves. John had shown that, while he was no Alpha, he was also by no means ‘just one of the pack,’ and the world’s only consulting criminal would underestimate him to his own peril. John saw that he had won some…respect? no, far too noble word for such an underhanded villain…some something from the other man. He himself had felt a spark of that something, too, something that he was unwilling to even acknowledge, name, or analyse, except in the wee small hours of the morning. And John’s conclusion, more often than not, at the end of those wee hours, was that he had imagined the whole thing.

 

After all, the man had tried to kill him, and he, in a kamikaze gesture, had tried to kill him back. Then why did John still remembered the feel of the man in his arms? The smell of his cologne? He never imagined he’d see him again.

 

And yet here they were. Again. And this time the spider was holding court, centre ring, in the Old Bailey. And John looking down from a safe—if there was there such a thing when it came to Jim Moriarty—distance away. And, at the precise moment when Sherlock launched his battle of wits with the judge, thus, ensuring his own future need for bail, the accused turned and looked at John. 

 

It was an instant, a-blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pivot and glance, but John was reminded of a poem that he’d learned in school: 

 

“I never saw a man who looked

With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went

With sails of silver by."

 

Wistful. The man looked wistful, as wistful as John felt, in that moment that they were on opposite sides, he with angels and the other, the Devil himself. But there was nothing for it, but for them both to play the roles they were assigned, and let the drama unfold as it would. John was reminded of another line in that poem, a line that he suspected would come to mind again and again before it was all over:

 

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves."


	9. Healer's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Healer's Choice. One person Watson chose not to save.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock  & John  
>  **Summary:** John gives up.

  
“I’m going to let it die,” said John.  
  
  
Sherlock groaned.  
  
  


“I’ve tried everything. Sunlight, shade, partial sunlight, partial shade. Special—expensive!—fertilizer, distilled water. Potting, repotting. Even turned the upstairs bedroom into a bit of a tropical paradise. Consulted Mrs. Hudson—and the internet—for tips, but….nothing’s working. I’m going to let it die.”    
  


Sherlock moaned.    
  
  


“It was very nice of Henry to give us a token of his appreciation, in addition to paying your fee, of course. And, if it were to ever bloom, it’s supposed to be gorgeous—and fragrant.”   
  


Sherlock grunted.    
  
  


“But I guess I’m not meant to be an orchidist. Taking care of one temperamental hot-house flower is enough.” John patted Sherlock’s head.    
  


Sherlock sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my sister, the amateur orchidist.


	10. What's All This Then?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** What’s All This Then? Use the POV of one or more of the police for today's entry.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** POV Lestrade on Sherlock  & John's partnership

God bless John Watson, thought Greg, as he put his badge in his pocket and walked out his front door.

God Bless John Watson is what Greg thought every morning that he put his badge in his pocket and walked out his front door.

Sherlock Holmes was a great man. John Watson was a good man. And together, they were Gregory Lestrade’s secret weapon against crime.

John Watson was an ordinary bloke, that is to say, a chap you could have a pint with, watch a match with. He was a help-you-move-your-things-into-storage-when-the-divorce-is-final kind of bloke. A friend, almost.

Sherlock Holmes was a damn-near-Harry-Potter-level of sorcerer, pulling clues and connections out of thin air, or so it seemed, until the wanker actually explained things and then it seemed jolly well obvious. And when Sherlock Holmes held court, as much as Greg needed him to pull those clues and make those connections, the Detective Inspector couldn’t help but feel like an idiot. And often there was verification from the tosser’s lips that he was, in fact, an idiot. But with John Watson there, Greg knew, not just suspected, he _knew_ , that he wasn’t the only idiot.

You tempered steel to form a knife. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, together, were the sharpest knife Greg had ever known, a knife that Greg used on a near daily basis. And the former was nothing without the latter. God bless John Watson, thought Greg, as he closed the front door behind him.

God Bless the man that tempered steel.


	11. Coat porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Coat Porn. Whether it's BBC Sherlock's amazing Belstaff, Joan Watson's slickers, or classic Victorian overcoats, let outerwear be your inspiration for today's entry.  
>  **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock/John  
>  **Warnings:** Public hand job, blow job.  
>  **Summary:** Coat porn!

“Sherlock! We can’t snog at a crime scene!”

 

“We’re snogging _near_ a crime scene, John.”

 

The police lights in the distance had effectively turned a night by the Thames into high noon.

 

“No one’s watching.” Sherlock brushed his lips against John’s. “And it will take ten minutes to get the heavy machinery in position and another seven minutes to haul the vehicle out of the water. So, seventeen minutes until my deductions are proven correct.”

 

John shivered; whether it was from the frigid night air or Sherlock’s kiss, he wasn’t sure.

 

“No one’s watching, John,” Sherlock’s voice fell to a purr, “but if you need further reassurance.” He unbuttoned his coat and extended one side, effectively creating a curtain between themselves and the far-off spectacle. John gave a nervous glance toward the lights. Then satisfied in Sherlock’s appraisal of the situation, he snuggled against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock tugged the coat around John, cocooning them together.

 

John whispered, “If you’re right about that…”

 

“Which I am.”

 

“…you’re bloody brilliant.”

 

“Which I am.”

 

John looked up. Sherlock looked down. They smiled at each other, that secret smile that no one, not even half the Metropolitan Police Department a short trot away, had ever seen. Sherlock snaked a gloved hand between them and cupped the front of John’s trousers.

 

“Sherlock! No!” hissed John. “We’re at a bloody crime scene! We’ll be arrested!”

 

“Not for another sixteen minutes, John. The way you look at me! The way you say ‘Fantastic!’ and ‘Amazing!’” John felt his cock twitch in response to Sherlock’s hand, which now was moving up and down in a slow caress. “I want to show you just how fantastic and amazing I can be.”

 

John groaned.

 

“Say ‘yes,’ John.”

 

“Yes, yes, yes, you gorgeous madman. But you’re doing the washing-up for a week if we get caught.”

 

A grin bloomed on Sherlock’s lips. “Deal. Bite,” he said, pressing a leather finger in John’s mouth. John bit, and Sherlock slipped off the glove and stuffed it in his pocket. He bent his head and began nuzzling at John’s neck, licking and scraping his teeth against skin. One hand held the side of the coat in place; the other made quick work of John’s belt and zippered trouser front.

 

“Lube,” said Sherlock, planting a wet kiss just below John’s ear.

 

“You keep lube in your coat?!”

 

John felt the smirk against his skin. His hands hunted through coat pockets until they found a small bottle. John flipped the cap and squeezed a generous amount of gel into Sherlock’s cupped hand.

 

“Very good,” breathed Sherlock. “Nice and wet.”

 

John’s cock hardened at the very words. And he was grateful that the moment that Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his now-throbbing cock was also the moment that Sherlock chose to smother John’s mouth in a sloppy kiss, thus, silencing the shout that might have been loud enough to actually attract the attention that John so feared. John closed his eyes and turned his head, burying his face in the fabric of Sherlock’s coat and giving himself over the sensations that Sherlock’s touch kindled in him.

 

“Sherlock!” he cried softly. His hips seemed to move of their own accord, rocking in time with Sherlock’s strokes.

 

“Is it…?” Sherlock teased.

 

“Fantastic. Amazing.” John inhaled deeply, breathing in cold air filtered through warm wool. “Oh God.”

 

Sherlock’s grip tightened; his rhythm accelerated.

 

John pressed his open mouth into the coat lapel as he bucked hard into Sherlock’s hand. When the fog of pleasure cleared, he opened his eyes and looked down. “Oh God, I can’t believe…” The mess had landed almost wholly in Sherlock’s cupped palm. “Good catch,” he said with a giggle. He looked up and kissed Sherlock’s lips. He pulled back to stare into grey eyes, and the only words that came to mind were ‘fantastic’ and ‘amazing.’

 

Sherlock paused as if hearing the words, then he said in his more matter-of-fact one, “Think you can manage a three-minute clean-up?”

 

“Oh Christ, yes.” John quickly located Sherlock’s handkerchief amongst the coat pockets. He cleaned Sherlock’s hand and then set himself to rights. “Um, should I return the favour?” he asked, gesturing toward Sherlock’s crotch as Sherlock refastened his coat and untied and retied his scarf.

 

Sherlock shrugged and donned his one missing glove. “No time. The game is on.” John’s face fell; Sherlock continued, “If I’m correct, we’ll be on our way back to Baker Street in twenty minutes and then, well…”

 

John smiled. “Ready when you are.”

 

But Sherlock’s deductions were not correct, or at least only partially correct as he would later argue, and twenty minutes became twenty hours. When they finally reached the living room at Baker Street, Sherlock removed his coat, but rather than hang it on the hook, he gave it to John.

 

“Send it out,” he said. John’s shoulders relaxed. Sherlock only sent the Belstaff out to be cleaned when he was going to rest, truly rest. After the night and day and night they had just had, John was relieved that Sherlock was allowing some maintenance of his ‘transport.’

 

John laid the Belstaff over the arm of his chair and removed his own jacket and hung it up. Sherlock went straight to his bedroom.

 

John weighed the pros and cons of tea, but decided to send the coat out first before taking care of his own ‘transport.’ Then a thought occurred; he hoped he was not too late. Once Sherlock was asleep, he would remain in that state for the better part of a day, withstanding all attempts at rousing.

 

“Sherlock, what about the scarf?” Coat in hand, John pushed the bedroom door open.

 

Sherlock lay atop the bed in vest and pyjama trousers. His eyes were closed.

 

“Too late,” whispered John. He looked down at the coat in his hands; then he smiled, pressed the garment to his face, and inhaled.

 

“Olfactory cues are some of the strongest triggers for memory.” Sherlock looked at John through half-lidded eyes. John blushed. “I seem to recall mention of a favour returned.”

 

“You should rest.”

 

“I will.”

 

John moved closer. He threw the Belstaff on the bed and then grabbed Sherlock’s legs and pulled them gently until they hung down the side. Then he spread Sherlock’s legs and knelt between them. He tugged at Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms until Sherlock’s erect cock sprung free.

 

“John.”

 

“Fantastic. Amazing.” John could hear Sherlock pushing up to his elbows. He licked a stripe up Sherlock’s cock; Sherlock moaned. John shifted and rubbed his face against the Belstaff; he tilted his head so Sherlock could see his teeth bite down on a button.

 

“John!”

 

“Fantastic. Amazing,” said John. Then he swallowed Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock called his name again and continued the chant as John sucked. Very soon John sensed the tell-tale tensing of Sherlock’s body. He quickly pulled off and rolled Sherlock’s hips to the side.

 

Sherlock groaned as John eagerly licked the wet streaks that decorated the wool and silk lining.

 

When John had finished, he looked back at Sherlock, who just whispered “Fantastic. Amazing.”

 

John stood up and fetched a damp flannel from the loo. “Scarf, too?” he asked as he re-entered the bedroom. He stopped and smiled. Then he shook his head and took care of a snoring Sherlock and his fantastic, amazing coat.


	12. Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Doyle vs. Dogs: Toby notwithstanding, dogs got a raw deal in Sherlock Holmes Canon – shot, poisoned, thrown out windows, stung by jellyfish. Feature a dog in your entry in some way (preferably without dying) from any incarnation of Sherlock Holmes – Redbeard, Gladstone, the Dog that Did Nothing, or even an honorary “dog” like Clyde the tortoise. Needless to say, Sherlock Hound stories count.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock  & John  
>  **Summary:** Gladstone is a good boy.  
>  **Warnings:** Depression, Off-screen deaths of Mary and Baby

The darkest days of our lives at Baker Street were those right after John had returned. Mary and the baby were gone, and so was John’s employment at the surgery. He’d apparently been let go for poor attendance, but his truancy was not any of my doing. He rarely accompanied me on cases then, preferring to stay hold up in his bedroom. He politely declined all invitations, to crime scenes, to eat, even to converse. He fell into a gloomy silence and an even more disturbing stillness. I listened for movement on the floorboards above as I went about my experiments and heard less and less of it as the days went on. He grew thin, and the dark smudges under his eyes suggested that his nightmares had returned. Whether the plots were new or old, I dared not ask.

Evenings when I was in attendance at the flat, I coaxed soothing melodies from my Stradivarius and even composed a couple specifically for palliative purposes. One night, when John quietly refused the cup of tea brought to his door, a stab of pure panic gripped me. In a rare moment of conciliation, he acquiesced to a shower, and while the water ran, I skipped up to his room. If he noticed the ammunition to the Browning was missing, he made no mention of it.

I was at a loss. Gone was my conductor of light and in his place was a walking shadow, a ghost of the John Watson I had known and upon whom I had relied so. I kept my worries to myself, ignoring both the concerned looks that Lestrade shot me when I began to work alone and my brother’s inquiries so bathed in superciliousness as to chafe at the mere acknowledgement of them. In a moment of despair, I considered contacting Ella, his former therapist, but, then I remembered my original assessment of her skill and thought better of it.

One day, when I had traded the taunting hollowness of the flat for Bart’s laboratory, an old friend walked through the door. Friend is a bit of an overestimation, but Mike Stamford had worked at least one miracle earlier in my life when he had answered my question about who’d want me for flatmate with the perfect answer. And, thus, I felt compelled to respond to his query about the health and well-being of the inhabitants of 221B with the truth. He listened to my laments, which once I commenced the recounting, tumbled out in torrents.

“What do I do?” I asked finally.

He was thoughtful, and then said, “Come by my flat. I may have something that can help.”

Later that day, I climbed the seventeen steps to John’s door with equal parts trepidation and hope. Maybe the answer was in my hands.

Knock, knock.

Silence.

Knock, knock.

John opened the door, blinking. I held up my offering.

“Sherlock!” he cried. “What’s the meaning of this?” His anger, I’ll admit, caused my heart to skip a beat. An animated John—regardless of form—was infinitely superior to an inert one.

“It’s for you,” I said. “He, I mean, is for you.”

“I can’t take care of a wife or child. I can’t take care of patients. I can’t take care of you. But you think I can take care of a dog?!”

The pup whimpered.

Heeding Mike’s advice, I pressed, “Just take him. For a moment.”

John huffed, but gathered the squirming little beast to his chest. It nuzzled and licked at his chin. And then I saw something I had not seen for months:

John Watson’s smile.

“What’s your name, little fella?” he asked as the furry creature lapped eagerly at his curled lips.

“Gladstone,” I supplied.

Then a second miracle occurred:

John Watson laughed.

“Hello, Gladstone,” he cooed. “You’re quite handsome.” Then he looked at me and sighed. “I guess it’s too late to give him back.”

“Far too late,” I agreed. I turned quickly and headed down the stairs, gaze lowered so as hide my shining eyes. John followed behind me.

“He’ll need food, Sherlock, and his shots…”

And though Gladstone would never be much protection for 221B, from burglars, thieves, or any of the assorted villains that crossed its threshold, he did save two lives on his very first day.

And for that, he will always be a good boy. A very good boy.


	13. A Tale Foretold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** A Tale Foretold. Watson comes across the first thing he ever wrote as a youth. It turns out to be prophetic.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
>  **Summary:** The Watson family crate arrives.

John was prying the lid off a large crate when Sherlock appeared in the living room.   
  
  


“Ah.”

  
“Yup. Harry’s in rehab again, so I get the Watson family crate. In here is the sum total of our inheritance, such that it is, and a few childhood mementos. Most of the time, I don’t even open it; I just wait until she’s back on her feet again and ship it back, but this morning, for some reason, I was feeling a little nostalgic. Tea’s on.”

  
Sherlock grunted and went to the kitchen.

  
“Oh, would you look at this. I’d forgotten all about this.” John flashed a glossy photograph toward Sherlock. “An autographed photograph of Leonard Nimoy. You know, he passed recently. Wonderful man by all accounts. I wrote him a fan letter when I was a child. Harry helped me write it, I was just a wee thing. Must have been the first letter I ever wrote. I told him I wanted to be Captain Kirk, but that I wanted a best friend like Mister Spock." He smiled at Sherlock. “I guess that worked out.”

  
“Who’s Spock?” 

  
“You are, love.”


	14. Not So Cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Not So Cute. It's easy to be shmoopy when there are adorable baby animals involved. Try to create something shmoopy with a less-than-adorable and/or not-quite-a-baby animal.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Characters:** Sherlock, John, Mike Stamford, Greg Lestrade  
>  **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
>  **A.N.:** From my [Under a Western Sky](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1920123/chapters/4143525) 'verse. Sherlock & John are lizards; Mike & Greg are the biologists that study them.

_Sherlock, we need to get out of here._

**_Nonsense. Greg and Mike’s typical supply run to Las Cruces is a minimum of ninety-three minutes. Plenty of time._ **

_Think they’ll ever catch on that it’s you using their equipment?_

**_Doubtful. For two Doctors of Philosophy in Wildlife Science from somewhere called Oregon State University, they are singularly unimaginative when it comes to animal behavior._ **

_In their defense, you’re the only New Mexico Whiptail I’ve ever seen use a computer._

**_Tablet, John. The touchscreen makes it easier. And if none of our fellow Aspidoscelis neomexicana recognize the potential of the Global Positioning System, then I’m afraid I have nothing to say to them_ ** _._

_Yeah, you don’t really say much when the gals get together, do you? What are you doing up there? Is it for a case?_

**_No. You know very well there’s been a dearth of villainy in the Refuge since we ran off our friend Moriarty, the Crotalus atrox._ **

_Good riddance. He was no friend of mine or yours or any species here. Is it for an experiment? The burrow still smells funny from yesterday._

**_I have already apologized for that. I was unaware that mixing those two particular vegetative compounds with water would cause a reaction quite so odoriferous, but that’s the beauty of science._ **

_Well, whatever you’re doing, it better be important because I’m missing breakfast. Beetles._

**_Got it! Perfect! I’m done. Let’s go, John._ **

_We’re not going to steal Greg’s iPod?_

**_No, the one I stole earlier still has some battery life. I’ve been conserving its use._ **

_How very un-Sherlock of you._

**_We need to vary our behaviour, John. It fascinates the biologists—and keeps them employed._ **

_Which means more toys for us._

 

**_Precisely._ **

* * *

**_John! Wake up! Let’s go!_ **

_Sherlock, it’s still dark!_

**_Precisely. Come on!_ **

_Where’ve you been? You’re cold. Ugh! Sun’s not up yet. Have you forgotten…_

**_That our internal physiological sources of heat are negligible in controlling our body temperature? No. It’s just transport, John._ **

_Yeah, well my transport is freezing. And you’re not the one with scar tissue across her back and snub-regenerated tail._

**_I thought brushfire veterans were made of heartier stuff._ **

_I’ll show you ‘hearty.’_

**_That’s my girl._ **

* * *

_Where are we going, Sherlock? I don’t recognize this place at all. We are a long way from the Baker Quadrant._

**_Here. This ridge. Yes. Look this way, John. Wait…wait…now!_ **

_Oh, Sherlock. The sunrise. It’s gorgeous._

**_And a little music. It’s fortunate that Greg’s taste is so eclectic._ **

_Out in the West Texas town of El Paso_

_I fell in love with a Mexican girl_

_Night-time would find me in Rosa's cantina_

_Music would play and Felina would whirl…_

_You hate my music._

**_True, but today is special._ **

_How so?_

**_I’m surprised you’ve forgotten. Today is the summer solstice. Today is the day that Ranger John rescued you from the brushfire and brought you to the biologists’ tent._ **

_While you were raiding it like a bandit._

**_And over there, if Mike’s Geographic Information System is correct, is the most prime location for beetle-nesting in the entire Refuge._ **

****

_Oh, Sherlock! A sunrise, music, and BREAKFAST, TOO!_

**_Yes._ **

_Oh, Sherlock, for a cold-blooded creature, you are a complete romantic! And the best mate a lizard could ever have!_

**_Happy anniversary, John._ **

_Happy anniversary, Sherlock._


	15. That Old Saying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** That Old Saying. The old Egyptian saying "ابن الوزّ عوّام. (ibn il-wazz 3awwam.) ("The son of a goose is a swimmer.") is roughly the same sentiment as the English "Like father, like son." Whether it's one of these statements or another adage, include some classic saying in today's entry. Bonus points if you also manage to include a goose!  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Pairing:** John & Sherlock  
>  **Summary:** Not a murder.  
>  **Warnings:** Gore, mental illness

I am a medical man and a soldier, but I confess in that instance, I had to cover my nose with my ready handkerchief as Sherlock studied the body.  
“Not a serial killer?” I asked.  
“No, a very extreme—and lamentably untreated—case of body dysmorphic disorder.”  
“No! You can’t be serious, Sherlock!”  
“When have you known me to joke about such things, John?”  
It was true, his wit was usually reserved for the interior of taxis or behind the walls of 221B.  
He continued, “This is a literal example of someone cutting off their nose to spite their face—or their mind, more precisely.”  
“Poor dear,” I sighed.


	16. Ablaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** [Picture of room ablaze](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1361925.html)  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
>  **Summary:** First Kiss.  
>  **A.N.:** Consider a Pinot Grigio with this CHEESE  & CRACK(ERS)

John Watson will tell you that the first time Sherlock Holmes’ lips touched his, a warmth spread through his chest unlike any he had ever felt, that his very heart alit at the realization that such a fantastic, amazing, extraordinary creature might reciprocate his affection. He will tell you that the spark of passion kindled flames not only above the belt, but below it, too, and that the smouldering in his loins threatened to rage out of control and engulf him, body and mind.

 

  
And he will tell you that he is 100% certain that Sherlock had a similar reaction due to the simple fact that the world’s most observant man failed to notice that he had, in his haste to reach for John and draw him closer, knocked over the paraffin lamp, which had subsequently broken, spilled, and set the whole living room ablaze.

 

  
Further evidence includes the fact that, later, as they sat, side by side on the back of the ambulance in matching orange shock blankets, they could not stop staring at each other and giggling. Giggling that erupted into full-bodied howling when John removed his oxygen mask to do his best Nat King Cole and sing,

 

  
“When your heart’s on fire, you must realize, smoke gets in your eyes…”


	17. Pawky Humor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** But Aside From That, Dr. Watson, How Did You Like the Trip to Switzerland?: Watson has been accused of having a “pawky sense of humour” by his flatmate. Incorporate humour into your entry in some way – even grim or black humour (characteristic of both medical people and police).  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock  & John  
>  **Summary:** John explains a joke.

“See, Sherlock, it’s funny because—“

“It really isn’t.”

“—you are a detective—“

“A fact of which I am aware, thank you.”

“—and we were at a gay pride parade—“

“The proliferation of rainbow flags and the presence of Sir Ian did give it away. See earlier: me, detective, always connecting the dots, John.”

“—and I don’t know if you’re familiar with the term, but there’s a certain type of—“

“I’m conversant in twenty-seven languages, John, including your Urban Dictionary version of the English vernacular.”

“—and, and, ha, ha, ha, and, this is the best part, because you see, _a group of bears is called a sleuth!_ That’s why it’s funny!

“It’s really not, John.”


	18. Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** The Games We Play. Involve a game of some sort in your story, whether it's a round of whist, an intense night of Cluedo, or a Pac-Man tournament.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** John copes, post-Reichenbach.  
>  **Warnings:** Grief, Angst

**Seven of diamonds to eight of clubs.**

**Seven of clubs to eight of diamonds to nine of spades.**

**Hit the deck. Four of spades. No good.**

Harsh light flooded the room as the curtains were drawn back. John squinted.

“Your tea’s gone cold, Doctor Watson.”

“Not the worst tragedy, Mrs. Hudson.”

_Not the worst tragedy. Not the worst. Not like, say, ‘Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do that for me?’_

**Hit the deck. Ten of spades. No good. Queen of hearts. No good. Eight of hearts. No good.**

**King of clubs to the empty space. Queen of diamonds to King of clubs.**

* * *

Soft light flooded the room as a lamp was switched on.

“Still at the patience, Doctor?”

“Yes, I prefer this to the computer version, the feel of flesh-and-blood cards in your hands.”

_The feel of flesh…a warm wrist between searching fingers._

_The feel of blood…a wet, sticky pool spreading on pavement._

_‘I am a doctor. Let me come through.’_

_Let me come through to feel the flesh and blood in my hands_.

**King of Spades to the empty space.**

**Hit the deck. Seven of spades. No good. Queen of clubs. No good**.

**Four of hearts to five of spades. Six of hearts to seven of clubs. Five of spades and four of hearts to six of hearts. No good, no good, no good. Jack of clubs to Queen of diamonds.**

* * *

“Funny you should call it that...”

John looked up. The room was empty. He squinted. Three o’clock in the morning.

He pushed himself to standing, and his body revolted: pangs in the neck, stiffness in the back, ache in the shoulders, numbness in the buttocks, but the most urgent assault was on his bladder.

He took a step and his foot slipped. He looked down. With a groan and a steadying hand on the back of the kitchen chair, he peeled it from his sole.

King of Hearts.

“Well, there’s your answer. I’m not playing with a full deck. Stands to reason I can’t win.”

Hysterical giggle became sigh became sob.

John wept and stumbled down the hallway toward the loo.

_Patience…not what he had been calling it…not what it was…_

_Not patience._


	19. While Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** While You Were Sleeping. Watson is presumed unconscious/asleep/comatose, but he can hear everything everyone says at his bedside.  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock/John with a hint of Mycroft/John  
>  **Summary:** Sherlock, Mycroft, and Lestrade at John's bedside.  
>  **A.N.:** John's POV of my ode to loneliness [Impaired Judgment](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1124308/chapters/2266160).

“John.”

_I did not try to commit suicide, Sherlock. It was an accident. I am just an idiot._

“You’re an idiot. Mixing alcohol and opiate narcotics and a hot bath.”

_I didn’t mix them in the beginning. The alcohol, large quantities of it, I’ll admit, came first. Then the stumble home. Then drawing and scenting the bath. Then slipping and cracking my hip on the side of the tub. Then the pain pills. The mixing came last._

“I told you, in the beginning, in the first moments that we met.”

_You said, ‘Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you?’ When we were just flatmates, it didn’t. But when we were just flatmates, it was never ten days. Ten days, Sherlock. Ten days without cases, without experiments. Without the sound of your violin. Without the sound of your voice. A trip to the local seemed just what the doctor ordered. But then I got pissed. Royally pissed._

_And made some very unfortunate decisions._

“Sherlock.”

“What are you doing here?!”

“Monitoring the good doctor’s care.”

“I’m here for that. Leave!”

“Yes, you seem to be doing a bang-up job, don’t you? _Caring_ for your _friend_.”

_Mycroft’s superpower is the ability to make every word in the English language sound tawdry._

“Shut up! Go away!”

“The good doctor doesn’t have much practice coping with your Dark Moods, hmm? How long was this one, a week? More? At our first meeting in the warehouse, I should’ve mentioned them. Should’ve offered some advice, seeing as how I have a lifetime of experience. Your lifetime, of course. There were those first seven blissful years when the world was my oyster.”

“Shut Up!”

_Do shut up, Mycroft._

“The level of opioid found in the bloodstream suggests suicide.”

_You’re wrong, Mycroft._

“I know what it suggests!”

“And seeing as how there are no narcotics in the flat, Sherlock.”

“And you know that for certain, don’t you? They came from the hospital.”

“Obvious. But why?”

_They should’ve been destroyed when the patient refused them, I know. It was a moment of pure, sober, weakness. I just slipped them in my pocket and honestly forgot about them until later._

“The bill from the pub and the residual blood alcohol level correspond to a highly impaired judgement. It was an accident, Mycroft. Not suicide.”

“I checked the mobile records, too. A voicemail for the Detective Inspector. A very brief text to me. Feeble attempts at reaching out. None to you.”

“See? There was no note. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note. And what urgent business were you attending to when you received that text? Cleaning crumbs from your cravat?”

“Now see here—“

“Hey, hey! Stop it, you two! This is a hospital room, not a rugby pitch! Don’t make me handcuff you! To each other!”

“I’d like to see you try!”

_Ha! The more indignant they are, the more they favour one another._

“Here, take these, outside, and smoke them, and don’t come back until you can behave.”

_I never thought it was possible to actually hear a staring contest. Until now._

_“_ Doctor Watson, know that you are receiving superior attention from the most qualified healthcare professionals in the country. You have my sincerest wishes for a speedy recovery.”

_Oh, Mycroft. I love you, too, you pompous arse._

“There’s a case, John. Paris. Ready for us when you wake. It’ll wait. I’ll wait. As long as it takes. Remember what I said, ‘People don’t like telling you things…’”

_But they love to contradict you._

_“_ Prove Mycroft wrong. It’s definitely worth coming out of a coma for, in my opinion. And, well, there just might be an apology in it for you, too.”

_I love you, too, Sherlock. I’m sorry you had the nightmare of finding me, but I’m glad you found me when you did._

“Sherlock! That’s enough. Off you go. Mycroft, too.” Silence. “Christ, John, you need to wake up! I can’t handle those two on my own!”

_It is an art and a science, wrangling Holmeses._

“I know we weren’t there exactly when you needed us, but we’re here now. All waiting for you. You’re not alone.”

_That’s just what I needed to hear._


	20. USA!USA!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Yankee Doodle Came to London: Doyle seemed to have a fascination for people and things American (three of his four novel-length Sherlock Holmes tales feature someone from North America), and societies as diverse as Pennsylvanian coal-town gangs, the Latter-Day Saints and the KKK appear in Canon. Remember that Watson was whumped by a Chicago gangster in 3GAR. Put something or someone American in your entry (or just have Joan Watson show up), or do an American-based pastiche (or just put Joan Watson in the story, did I mention her?).  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock  & John & Greg  
>  **Summary:** John is caught in a betrayal.

“Sherlock! What are you doing here?”

“I caught you! Red-handed!”

John turned pink. “Did you follow me?”

“Of course, I did. You said you weren’t interested. You said that you would never, ever…”

“Sherlock…”

“I thought you were protesting a bit too much. And now I see I was right. As always.”

“Sherlock…”

“How could you? Oh, I see.”

“Sherlock.”

“Gr-r-raham.”

“It’s Greg.”

“I guess the temptation was too great. Especially when you have a co-conspirator, so ready and willing. And we’re, what, half-way across London. Didn’t want to be seen too close to Baker Street. People might talk.”

“They do little else, Sherlock. You taught me that.”

“This isn’t the first time, is it?”

“Sherlock…”

“Didn’t you fight a war for it? Tea and country.”

“I fought a war for _Queen_ and country, Sherlock. And I am a grown man. I can have a Pumpkin Spice Latte if I want. And Greg can have a…”

“Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino.”

“…if he likes.”

“Traitors!” 


	21. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Heat Rash. It's a muggy, hot summer and someone's reacting badly. Metaphorical bonus points for including salve/lotion/ointment and needing help applying it.  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Characters:** John Watson, Jim Moriarty; background: Sherlock Holmes, Jane Marple (Agatha Christie)  
>  **Pairing:** flirty John Watson/Jim Moriarty  
>  **Summary:** A day at the beach brings out predators.  
>  **Warning:** Reference to watersports  
>  **A.N.:** A mash-up of BBC Sherlock and my favorite mystery novel, Agatha Christie's _A Caribbean Mystery_

John propelled himself through the cool water. Arms, legs, and breath synchronized, and he pushed on, past lazy sun-bathers and frolicking families.

He’d always been a strong swimmer, even as a child, when swimming was play, and later, after the war, but before Sherlock, when water was the most forgiving of elements, allowing him to move with speed and strength, sans pain and tremor.

He continued on until he found himself in a quiet cove. He tried to give the approaching snorkel tube a wide berth, but it seemed to be pursuing him.

John stopped and tread water.

Up popped a head.

“Doctor Watson.”

The cartoonish mask was no disguise. For evil.

“What are you doing here?!”

Immediately, John’s gaze flew towards the resort, and just as immediately, his thoughts flew to Sherlock.

“Escaping the heat of London. Enjoying a holiday. Don’t worry. Sherlock’s safe. Well, he might be in danger of a nasty sunburn, but that’s not my doing.”

John needn’t have worried that a week in the islands would drive the world’s only consulting detective to wall-shooting levels of boredom. Within hours of arrival, he’d joined forces with a sweet elderly lady and they were, at the moment, in the process of convincing the local authorities to exhume the body of an old colonel, who’d presumably died of heart failure, but whom the old dear believed had met with foul play.

“Aunt Jane _is_ a dear, isn’t she?”

Christ!

Then suddenly, Moriarty’s face went blank, and he disappeared, snorkel and all.

“Oh no, I am not falling for that. It’s a trap! Drown yourself if you will.” John made for the empty shore.

Then Moriarty reappeared, sputtering and splashing. He followed behind John using clumsy strokes.

“What’s that all about?” asked John when they reached the point where both could stand.

“Nothing,” mumbled Moriarty, pushing past with a slow hobbling gait.

John shrugged. Then he heard a word. “What?” he called.

Moriarty whipped around and glared. “JELLYFISH!”

It couldn’t work. It couldn’t work. Surely. But he had to try.

“I know a sure-fire remedy for that,” said John with his best ‘Trust-me-I’m-a-doctor’ voice.

Moriarty eyed him suspiciously, then nodded.

\----

“It’s not working! It’s not working!”

“Maybe a little more.”

\----

“It’s still not working! It still stings!”

“Oh well, that’s all I got.”

John could hold back no longer. His giggling turned to howls of laughter.

Moriarty turned purple with rage. “YOU WILL DIE A SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH!”

“Oh, please, that’s the story of my life. Find an original threat, Dr. No!” Then John’s laughter faded. “If you want, I’ll go get some supplies from the guard’s station and do a bit of actual first aid.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m a doctor. And you just let me piss on your leg. I’ve had my fun.”

Moriarty grunted.

\---

Surprisingly, Moriarty was still sitting on the rock when John returned.

“What, no villainous ambush?” John asked. “I’m disappointed.”

“I’m planning something special,” said Moriarty, but he looked small and pained, a shadow of his Westwood-clad, Semtex-wielding self.

“Here, this will actually help.” John retrieved a bottle of vinegar from the bag and poured its entire contents on the red welt. “Wow, it got you good. Maybe it was trying to shake your hand, like brothers-in-arms, you know, one invisible menacing predator to another.”

“You’re quite the comedian, Doctor.”

“That’s me, Doctor Funny Pants. Alright. There’s one teeny bit of tentacle still attached. Time for surgery.”

Moriarty tensed as John mixed sea foam and sand into a frothy paste and dabbed it on the leg. Then he produced a thin razor blade and gently scraped the skin.

“Too bad you’re on the side of the angels, Doctor. I could use a man like you.”

“What kind of man is that?”

“A kinky bastard that knows his way around a sharp object.”

“Kinky?”

“You did just piss on my leg.”

John laughed. “Does that mean we’re courting?” He pat the area with a towel. “There we go. All done. Now,” he handed Moriarty a sealed packet and a bottle of water, “something for the pain, which you can take every six to eight hours for the next day. Should be back to full-functioning crime consulting in no time.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome.”

John headed toward the water’s edge.

“Say ‘hello’ to Aunt Jane for me!”

John gave a wave without looking back and dove into the sea.

 


	22. Note on Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** While You were Out. Watson returns home after a long day to find a note pinned to his door. What is the note? Who left it? It's all up to you.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock  & John  
>  **Summary:** Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affaire de coeur.

_Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affaire de coeur._

Sherlock’s words came to me as I turned the corner. This was the fourth time I’d been in the vicinity of 221 since, well, since Mary and the baby. Since I had ceased to be husband and father. Since the latest chapter in my life had closed.

The first time was by accident. Horrible traffic snarls and the cabbie had decided to take a short cut. I was studying my mobile, but my peripheral vision registered all the familiar landmarks and something in my body shifted, expectantly, without conscious thought.

The second and third times were intentional. I stayed well on the other side of the street, just allowing myself a bare glance in the direction of my former abode. If I knocked, would he answer? How would I be received, after everything that had happened? Warmly? Coolly? Was he even still in residence there at all? Had he returned to his old vices? Was he out on a case? Was he engrossed in some experiment?

I hurried past.

This time it was late evening. The end of a tiresome, tedious day. The monotony, the sense of being disconnected from the world about me, of drifting without purpose or direction laid heavy on my shoulders. I stared for a long while at food I did not want to eat. Then I stared a little longer at a pint I did not want to drink. Then I went for a walk, knowing deep-down exactly where my feet would take me.

Home.

I approached from the near side of the pavement and saw a white square attached to the knocker. I remembered the only other instance I’d seen this: following Mrs. Hudson’s attack at the hands of CIA-trained killers. Perhaps Sherlock was in danger? I quickened my steps and got close enough to read:

 

**COME IN, IDIOT!**

 

So I did.


	23. Improvised Tool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Improvised Tools. For a truly desperate person anything can be utilized as a tool or as a weapon.  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Pairing** : Sebastian Moran/John Watson  
>  **Summary:** They say _'Un clavo saca otro clavo.'_ A Spanish phrase that literally means one nail removes another nail. It’s often used to say that a new love drives out the pain of an old love.  
>  **A.N.:** This scene occurs between my two stories [Mate](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2072541/chapters/4506936) and [Reviving a Corpse at the End of the World](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2168826). In the first, John and Sherlock meet as shepherds on the Argentine pampas and fall in love. In the second, Sherlock reappears after a Reichenbach-type disappearance in which she kills Moriarty and dismantles her web. At the time, John is working as a barkeep in Ushuaia, Argentina, the southernmost tip of country, sometimes called The End of the World. John is complicit in Sherlock’s plan of faked death and, in pretending to grieve, she has developed a reputation for drowning her sorrows in the fair sex.

“Give it a try now.”

John turned on the tap and watched the water run. “Hey, thanks! I was really desperate. We open in a couple of hours, and I was worried that it wouldn’t be fixed in time. What’s a bar without clean glasses?”

The woman slipped from under the sink.

“No problem. I had to improvise a bit, tool-wise, but hey, that’s what you have to do at the end of the world, no?”

“Don’t I know it? Well, thanks again. I can mix a drink or stitch a wound, but I’m pants at anything plumbing-related.”

“Lucky for you, I’m a bit of a Jill-of-all-trades.”

“Nice kind of Jill to know,” said John with a smile. “Tonight’s Tango Night. Why don’t you come by? Drinks on the house for you and anyone you want to bring.”

The woman’s face fell as she tossed a wrench in a bucket. “My, uh, anyone’s not around anymore.”

John nodded and bit her lip. “Well, the offer still stands. If you just want to drown your sorrows and watch the dancing, I’ll save you my prime viewing post.” She gave a wink and gestured to a stool at the far end of the bar.

“Maybe.”

* * *

“Another one?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

John returned with a frothy mug and a bowl of peanuts. “Nibbles?”

The woman’s gaze didn’t leave the dance floor. “They’re all so…”

“Beautiful?”

“Yeah. Reminds me of someone. She died.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

The woman gave a dismissive wave. “Long time coming, still…”

“It hurts. This part of the world attracts all kinds of folks, running away from all kinds of things. You know people who say that you can’t run away from your problems…”

“Cowards,” mumbled the woman as she tipped the mug to her lips.

“Yup. Have never run fast or far enough. Down here, I’ve found it’s easier to forget what you’re supposed to be forgetting.”

The woman set the mug down and studied John. “They say ‘ _Un clavo saca otro clavo._ ’”

John raised an eyebrow and let a smile twitch on her lips. “We close at two.”


	24. Mrs. Hudson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** A Long-Suffering Woman: Involve Mrs. Hudson in Watson’s whump in some fashion.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Characters:** Mrs. Hudson, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Victor Trevor  
>  **Summary:** A few words from Mrs. Hudson put a wrench in John’s day.  
>  **A.N.:** Starring Idris Elba as Victor  
>  **Warning:** Only the shell of a story. Suggestions and comments welcome.

There’s no fool like an old fool.

And this morning, Martha Hudson was an old fool.

She’d been awake all night, rehearsing what she would say.

A wife in Doncaster _and_ one in Islamabad.

And, in an instant, her fantasy of a warm sea breeze and a golden Mediterranean sun dipping into the horizon and a hand in hers was shattered.

And she was nothing special.

Well, nothing special but a _very old fool_.

She’d put on her battle dress, the one she wore to funerals and to argue with the bank, and went out the front door just as Mr. Chatterjee was turning on the lights in the café.

* * *

Well, she’d given him a piece of her mind. Several pieces, in fact. What was it about a man that infuriated one so?

She didn’t feel especially vindicated or satisfied. The way her eyes had teared and her voice had risen to a slightly hysterical pitch at the end wasn’t exactly righteous indignation, but it was over, and now she could retreat to her own little world and lick her wounds.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson!”

“Good morning, Doctor Watson!” She forced the cheeriness of the reply, which only made her feel more rotten inside. Her traitorous mind replayed phrases:

“ _I never said that…I always enjoyed our little chats, but…You’re mistaken…A woman of your age…_ ”

A woman of her age.

An old fool is what he meant.

Oh, why wasn’t Doctor Watson on his way? Surely he had work at the surgery this morning! He was still talking, blocking her retreat inside. If he didn’t move soon, she might be stuck on this pavement, right in front of the café, when one of the _apparently many_ Mrs. Chatterjees dropped by.

What was it about a—well-intentioned, normally delightful—young man to prevent one from a strong cuppa and a good cry?

What was he saying?

“… _ha, ha, ha, I’m just a stand-in for his skull, after all, ha, ha, ha_ …”

“Not his skull, Victor.”

He stopped laughing.

“Victor?”

“Victor Trevor, his friend, his only friend, from university. Now, please, Doctor Watson, I think my scones are burning.” She pushed past him.

It wasn’t until she had closed the door on her own flat that she realized what she had said.

Oh no.

Now she had two reasons to cry.

Old fool.

* * *

Victor Trevor. Victor Trevor.

The two words echoed in John’s mind all morning. Patient after patient came through, but the only name he remembered was Victor Trevor.

He, John Watson, was apparently a stand-in for someone called Victor Trevor, someone whom Sherlock had known at university.

A friend.

She’d said ‘his only friend.’

_I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one._

Yeah, one now. And one then. So Victor Trevor wasn’t a friend anymore. John had never heard Sherlock mention him, but then, other than the case with the slimy Sebastian Wilkes, he’d never heard Sherlock speak of his university days at all.

Who was Victor Trevor? And more importantly, what had happened?

* * *

It was lunchtime.

John slipped behind the receptionist’s desk as soon as he heard the front door jangle shut.

Victor Trevor, he typed. And read.

He was a business man. He had started with a couple of restaurants specializing in West African cuisine and moved on from there. John read bios and snippets and put together a picture of a well-educated, energetic, successful entrepreneur.

Not a banged-up, broken-down ex-Army doctor by a long shot.

Then he found a photo.

“Holy Mary,” he breathed.

Victor Trevor was a _very_ handsome man. Tall, dark, muscular. In fact, he was as far from John’s own hobbit form as genetics would allow. And he could wear a suit just like Sherlock.

John clicked through page after page of links. One caught his eye as he heard the familiar jangle.

_The Adventures of Lock and Key, Story and Illustrations by Victor Trevor_

John had just enough time to hit ‘print’ and close the window and delete the browser history before he was nodding to Emma and asking her if she’d had a nice lunch and scurrying down the hall to catch the sheets emerging.

* * *

He’d put in a plain folder, the kind they used for patient files, and thankfully it was a very slow afternoon.

_The Adventures of Lock and Key_

It was a comic book. A very good comic book.

Victor Trevor had some skill in drawing and storytelling along with his business acumen. Lock and Key were the most amazing crime-fighting duo that London had ever seen, but it was no mystery to John who the masked heroes were.

Key was obviously patterned after Victor himself and Lock. Well, as the original would say,

Victor Trevor had been Sherlock’s Boswell. A different kind of Boswell. Not a blogger, but still a chronicler, and the author’s admiration for his protagonist shone forth on every page.

Admiration. Or something else?

Had they been more than friends? There’d been no mention in John’s quick research of a Mrs. Trevor or a family, though that was no indication of anything, one way or the other.

John stared at a page. Lock had just foiled the police _and_ the villain in spectacular fashion, and Key had pronounced, “Brilliant!”

Just like John.

Mrs. Hudson was right.

He _was_ a stand-in, an understudy, and unknowingly, had played the role perfectly.

Nothing special.

The looks that John had thought that he and Sherlock had been passing, the almost-brushes of hands. The conversations. The softening of the word ‘idiot.’ John had thought they were moving toward _something_.

Maybe he’d been imagining it. Maybe Victor had been imagining it. Maybe he should track Victor down and ask him. Maybe he should ask Sherlock.

No. No.

Maybe Sherlock was still pining for his only friend, his _old_ friend, the one who’d obviously known him well enough to remember the scowl and the ‘Boring!’ and the adages (‘People hate to tell you things, but they love to contradict you’) and reproduce it all in vivid colour.

Down to a black cape with a shiny red buttonhole.

* * *

John had just finished feeding the pages into the shredder when his phone beeped. Case. He grabbed his jacket and knocked on Sarah’s office door.

* * *

Victor Trevor. Victor Trevor.

Would Lestrade know Victor Trevor?

John tried to piece together a timeline of Sherlock’s past and realized he knew very little of dates and durations.

There’d be no way of asking Lestrade about Victor Trevor without raising suspicion, and John did not want to raise suspicion, like he was doing right now, based on the way that Sherlock and Lestrade were looking at him.

What? He’d missed something. Had Sherlock made a deduction?

“Brilliant,” he said in a flat voice.

Lestrade laughed. Sherlock did not.

* * *

The cab ride back to Baker Street was quiet. That in and of itself was not unusual, but the lack of tap-tap-tapping of Sherlock on his mobile was noticeable.

Sherlock’s hand was on the seat, fingers wide. The last time they’d been in a cab like this, John’s hand had been on the seat, too. Their little fingers had almost touched. John had wanted them to touch. Had _ached_ for them to touch. Had imagined that the next time, they _would_ touch.

John snorted. He was a grown man, and this is what his life had become: fantasising about little fingers touching.

Nothing special. A stand-in.

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the window and imagined Victor Trevor sitting snug between them all the way home.

* * *

“A word, Doctor?”

“Everything okay, Mrs. Hudson? It’s quite late.”

“I have, uh, a medical question. Concern, really.”

“Sure. Um, good night, Sherlock.”

John turned, but Sherlock had already disappeared up the stairs.

* * *

She set a plate of scones between the two cups.

“So, what’s on your mind, Mrs. H?”

“Same thing that’s on yours. Victor Trevor.” 

 


	25. Fanwords through the Ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Fanworks Through the Ages. ([Picture of a poem published in the Milwaulkee Ledger, 1895.](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1404237.html))  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock/John  
>  **Summary:** A scene from the breakfast table in Sussex (Retirement!lock)

John adjusted his reading glasses. Then he snorted. Then he harrumphed.

Sherlock breezed in, face flush, brow shining with sweat.

“Hello, love,” said John. “How are the queen and her drones this morning?”

“Busy as their proverbial selves. Voila!” He produced a small jar.

“Your first harvest! Well done!”

“Yes, for once in our colourful coexistence, you shan’t have to nag me to eat. I am quite eager for my morning repast.”

“Oh yes, let’s try it. Toast and tea and your very own honey!”

“ _Our_ honey.”

“How is it mine? You tend to those hives as if they were your children.”

“And you tend to me with equal care.” They kissed. “Now, prepare my toast and tell me exactly what in this morning’s newspaper has got you riled.”

“How did you know…?”

“John, after twenty years…?”

John laughed. He shot a disapproving look at the rumpled pages. “They’re at it again.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Some fool is calling himself the ‘modern-day Sherlock Holmes.’ It’s as if the world has forgotten that the _real_ Sherlock Holmes still exists.”

“Sussex is not central London. And it has been quite a few years since the Yard has come calling.”

“Still, these young lads can’t hold a candle to you! Your brains! Your daring!”

“They certainly can’t if they don’t have a most excellent Boswell at their side.”

Sherlock planted a kiss on John’s lips, and then flitted about the kitchen, holding the jar aloft.

“You’ve gotten so sentimental in your old age,” said John with a soft smile. “It was my job to make sure that your name was known. I don’t like to see it used so haphazardly, and I don’t like to think about…”

Sherlock plopped in the chair beside John and squeezed his hand.

“We still have many beautiful years together.”

“I guess it’s a bit of ‘the King is dead; long live the King!”

“Indeed, let’s forget about kings and focus on the fruit of our beautiful queen! My toast!”


	26. Expecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** The One You Were Expecting: Everyone expects certain kinds of prompts in JWP. Today's prompt is exactly that: the one you personally had expected to see by now, but haven't. Whether that's a 221B challenge, a woeful injury, or a cracktastic combination - well, it's whatever you expected from JWP!  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
>  **Summary:** John is sick.  
>  **A.N.:** I don’t know what the prompt would be exactly, but I have been expecting to have to write a Watson sick!fic.

“You’re feverish.”

“It’s nothing,” I replied. “Just transport.”

“Though I treat my own transport cavalierly, yours I guard with the utmost delicacy.” 

He turned back to Lestrade and rattled off a string of conclusions so quickly as to make my head pound even more. 

I had barely uttered a muffled ‘Brilliant’ into his sodden handkerchief when he was bundling me into a cab and we were bound for Baker Street by the fastest route that money could buy and that his own superior sense of London geography and traffic patterns could dictate.

Then there were blankets and soup and hot water bottles and so much tut-tutting as to put a mother hen to shame. 

I shall never forget it. 

It was worth it; it was worth all the shivering and the aches and the bone-deep fatigue to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask.


	27. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** "Aside from yourself, I have none." Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be the anti-social one with Watson as his only friend. But who are Watson's friends outside of Sherlock Holmes?  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** Johnny, if there’s danger and I ain’t a-comin’, you ain’t a-goin’.   
> **A.N.:** Imagine [Sam Elliott](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sam_Elliott) reading it.

Johnny and I go way back. We’re like brothers. Brothers in arms, heh, heh. He has always taken good care of me, just like I take care of him. He won’t say much about the war, but I can tell you that he was a hero, yessiree. Saved lives on and off the battlefield. Saw it first-hand. When he got shot, it almost broke me. I felt like I let him down. And I thought that was the end of us. I figured we’d never see each other again, but he managed to keep us together. He’s like that, loyal to a fault. I guess he figured he needed me, and I sure as hell didn’t want no one but him.

But, I tell ya, I was worried about the ol’ boy when he first came back. He was looking at me a bit too friendly, if you know what I mean. I didn’t want to be the last name on ol' Johnny Watson’s dance card. But then one night, he came and got me, and I could tell there was something going on. I’d often tell him, “Johnny, if there’s danger and I ain’t a-comin’, you ain’t a-goin’.” And that night, I was comin’. His hand didn’t shake and neither did I. And I got my ol’ Johnny back.

Then one night, somebody kidnapped me and got into all kinds of foolishness. I wish I could’ve got one off in that rascal’s grip plate before Johnny was on the scene, setting things right.

I can’t ask for a better friend than Johnny, and Johnny, well, he can always count on me.

My name is Browning L9A1, and it’s a pleasure to meet ya.


	28. Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Bad, Bad, oh so Bad! Whether it's bad art, bad fiction, or just plain awful, let the badness inspire you in some way today. Take a bad song and make it better, or make it so bad it's good? It's up to you!  
>  **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Pairings:** Sherlock/John  & Mycroft/Greg  
>  **Summary:** While tidying the flat, John decides to shake it up, just like bad medicine. His Bon Jovi-itis is contagious.  
>  **Warnings:** [Bon Jovi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bon_Jovi)-fueled lust (Warning or enticement? Reader’s call)

John yawned and dug the crud from his eyes as he padded downstairs.

When he reached the foot of the stairs, he blinked.

Oh Lord.

The sitting room was an utter mess. He turned his head. The kitchen was worse!

It was too early for calculations; nevertheless, he attempted to determine the ratio of Sherlock’s morning experiment gone wrong (or right, depending on your perspective) to last night’s carnal binge in terms of responsibility for the scene of destruction around him.

He decided on 1:2 with a snicker; then he stepped carefully into the kitchen, wincing as his bare feet stuck to the floor.

He opened the bread bin and shut it immediately.

Christ. No toast. Just tea.

He looked at the kettle with equal parts trepidation and mounting anger. Sherlock better not have…

_Beep!_

The sound was faint. His mobile. Christ. Where was it? Jacket? Trousers? His and Sherlock’s clothing were strewn about the furniture and floor in the far room.

He finally located the device buried in the sofa cushions along with several used and unused packets of lubricant. He tapped the screen and sat down to read.

The sofa tilted, and John caught himself just before toppling onto the rug.

What the fuck?

He looked down. One of the legs of the sofa had been knocked clean off.

Damn. That was going on the rent.

He sat on the high end of the slant, bracing himself to keep from falling.

**Barts. Kettle ok. SH**

John smiled.

**Love you too. JW**

John typed it without embarrassment because he knew that in the world of Sherlock Holmes fucking with every part of a man but his tea kettle was the very definition of love. Among others.

John was sipping his tea and surveying the damage, deciding what to tackle first, when he heard the roar of a car stereo passing outside.

**_Your love is like bad medicine_ **

**_Bad medicine is what I need_ **

**_Shake it up, just like bad medicine_ **

**_There ain't no doctor that can_ **

**_Cure my disease_ **

Wow. It’s been a long time since he’d heard that one.

* * *

John found himself still humming the song as he climbed the stairs, hands full of cleaning supplies on loan from Mrs. Hudson. The restoration of 221B to its original state was going to take all morning. Why not have a little music to make things go by faster?

* * *

John sang along as he scrubbed the counters, moving his body back and forth to the beat.

**_Your love is like bad medicine_ **

**_Bad medicine is what I need_ **

Counters done, he took hold of the mop and growled.

**_An angel's smile is what you sell_ **

**_You promise me heaven then put me through hell_ **

**_Chains of love got a hold on me_ **

**_When passion's a prison you can't break free_ **

When the entire kitchen floor was wet, he turned up the volume and launched into the chorus, belting it out with the handle of the mop as microphone.

**_Shot through the heart and you're to blame_ **

**_You give love a bad name, bad name_ **

**_I play my part and you play your game_ **

**_You give love a bad name, bad name._ **

John felt a tap on his shoulder. He jumped.

“Hey!”

Lestrade grinned and yelled. “I came to get that case file that Sherlock stole!”

John gestured to the room. “If you can find it, it’s yours!” He’d restored some order, but the desk was still piled high with papers and books and items that could only be described as Holmesian detritus.

Lestrade stood over the heap, like a crow scouting out the choicest morsel from the rubbish bin.

John reached for the volume knob.

**_Oooo-waaah-oooo-waaah-oooo_ **

Lestrade batted John’s hand away. “I like that one!” He grabbed the end of the mop and sang.

**_Tommy used to work on the docks_ **

**_Union's been on strike_ **

**_He's down on his luck..._ **

**_It's tough, so tough_ **

John grabbed it back and continued.

**_Gina works the diner all day_ **

**_Working for her man,_ **

**_She brings home her pay_ **

**_For love, for love_ **

Then they grinned and put their foreheads heads together above the mop handle and sang together.

**_She says, "We've gotta hold on to what we've got._ **

**_It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not._ **

**_We've got each other and that's a lot._ **

**_For love we'll give it a shot."_ **

**_Whoa, we're half way there_ **

**_Whoa, livin' on a prayer_ **

**_Take my hand and we'll make it - I swear_ **

**_Whoa, livin' on a prayer._ **

Then they launched into duelling air guitar solos, jumping and thumping and sliding around the room.

* * *

“Sherlock!”

“Ugh!”

“Your attempts to evade me are juvenile and futile, Brother Dear. I need your signature on these documents. The sale of the place in Hertfordshire won’t be final until…What is that noise?”

**_“I’LL! BE! THERE! FOR! YOU!”_ **

Two sets of Holmesian eyes flew to the second story window.

“It seems that Doctor Watson prefers, uh, spirited tunes at a lively volume.”

Sherlock scowled. “I suggest you have your hearing tested, Brother Dear. There are _two_ voices.”

Mycroft’s face went grey.

They took the stairs as quickly and stealthily as two grown men could manage side by side—neither wanting to cede the lead.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they stared.

John had the mop and Lestrade had the broom and they were powering through the power ballad at the top of their lungs with the requisite expressions of extreme constipation.

With no acknowledgement of the spectators, they bowed to each other as the final chords rang out. Their heads were bent low as a guitar twanged. They looked up and caught each other’s gaze. Then, noticing the two pairs of legs, they turned their heads to the doorway.

If Sherlock and Mycroft were expecting embarrassment or even surprise at the intrusion, they were to be wholly disappointed. John and Greg looked back at each other with raised eyebrows and large smiles that grew even larger when one Holmes brother was being dragged upstairs by his woolly coat lapels and another dragged by his Saville Row tie to the embattled sofa.

**_It's all the same, only the names will change_ **

**_Everyday it seems we're wasting away_ **

Sherlock fell to sitting on the bed at the same time that Mycroft hit the sofa.

“Gregory, I have a meeting later this afternoon with the Pri-i-i-me, ah, ah…oh Dear God.”

Mycroft’s trousers were open and Greg was kneeling before him, licking at the hard shaft through silk briefs.

**_I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride_ **

**_I'm wanted dead or alive_ **

**_Wanted dead or alive._ **

“I promise not to muss your bespoke, love,” whispered Greg before he pushed trousers and pants down and took Mycroft’s cock in his mouth.

* * *

Upstairs, Sherlock was receiving whispers of his own.

“I’m still a little sore from last night. Open me up as quickly and as gently as you can.”

And Sherlock’s response proved that part of being a proper genius is to know when to question a statement and when to _just shut up and do it_.

John stripped and climbed back onto Sherlock’s lap. Soon, he was throwing his head back and arching, impaled on Sherlock’s cock. He cried out, “I’m wanted!”

“Wanted!” echoed a strangled voice from downstairs.

“Dead or alive!” they finished, and, at that exact moment, so did two Holmes brothers.

* * *

“Here,” said Sherlock, with an angry flourish of the pen. “Now leave.”

Mycroft closed the folder and tucked it under his arms. He gave a curt nod and disappeared down the stairs without a further word.

The next few moments saw two Holmes brothers tapping on the respective devices with alacrity.

“Men’s apparel, black leather trousers, of course I want expedited shipping…”


	29. Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Picture of [snowy wolf](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1422382.html).  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** John (wolf)  & Sherlock (raven)  
>  **Summary:** The last time snow was on the ground, wolf knew that she would not see the spring.  
>  **A.N.:** Continuation of [The Wolf Bird](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1371580/chapters/2868358).

The last time snow was on the ground, the wolf knew that she would not see the spring.

But then came the raven, pecking at her snowy tomb and ordering her with its insistent chatter to get up and hunt.

Hunt?

With her wounds, the wolf hadn’t hunted more than an enfeebled vole in months, and in all fairness, the first kill was an easy one: a stag trapped in a ravine. The raven could not open the beast with its beak, but it could tease the wolf with its pecking and its squawking until she rose out of her resigned stupor, followed the strange bird to the site, and let teeth and claws do their natural work.

She ate. And the raven ate. And it was good.

The raven led the wolf back to its cave, full of shiny bits of this and that.

The raven led the wolf _home,_ for they lived in the cave together, through a spring and a summer and an autumn.

And now snow was on the ground again.

The raven had abandoned its nest, preferring to sleep—the rare instance it chose to sleep, rather than titter about—nestled against the wolf’s belly while her curled tail beat a languid rhythm on the floor of the cave.

And just as in early days with the bear trap, the wolf was always rescuing the raven from its infernal curiosity. It was forever picking at this and picking at that. And more than once its fascination with bees and their inner workings had sent the wolf soaking in icy streams to cool her stung flesh.

* * *

It was the shortest day of the year.

The wolf opened her eyes to familiar chirping, chirping which meant the raven had found prey. The wolf knew it was a formidable target by the way the bird hopped excitedly about the cave.

The game was on.

As predators, they had no match. The raven flying overhead, and the wolf following until her own senses detected the quarry.

The elk was grand. Truly grand. And it took several attacks and tracking for long distances before it fell. All the while, the raven cheered from above. The wolf was exhausted and panting, but alive!

Oh so alive!

And then the carcass was ripped asunder and they feasted side-by-side.

The wolf trotted back to the cave with a heavy bone secure in her jaws. She would spend the rest of the night, and many nights to come, gently gnawing while she watched the raven tinker with the twigs and rocks and—most interesting to the silly bird—the human detritus that it had scavenged.

The last time snow was on the ground, the wolf knew that she would not see the spring.

Now she knew differently. 


	30. Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Words of Warning. "You are going to die tonight." Use this however it inspires you.  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
>  **Characters** John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mummy Holmes, Oda Mae Brown (1990 film Ghost), Willie Lopez (1990 film Ghost)  
>  **Summary** John investigates a fraudulent medium.  
>  **A.N.:** Bring some crackers for the cheese! More about the murder weapon [here](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2991206/Shopper-s-shock-discovering-bananas-Tesco-infested-hundreds-deadly-Brazilian-spiders-hatching-eggs.html).

“You are going to die tonight!”

All eyes were on John. The woman sitting to his left dropped his hand.

The warning did not scare him. Sherlock’s words earlier that day, however…

* * *

“I’ve got my best man on it.”

John let the bite of toast sit un-chewed in his mouth. Sherlock was speaking, speaking, not texting. John heard the shuffling of bare feet on the hallway floorboards, then the quiet thud of a mobile hitting the padded seat of an armchair.

“Mummy sends her love.”

Oh Lord.

* * *

That’s what led him, John Hamish Watson, to be sitting around a table holding hands with strangers while an American woman named Oda Mae Brown attempted to make contact with the spirits in the afterlife. This was the same Oda Mae Brown who had relieved Mummy Holmes’s best friend of a sizable portion of her army widow’s pension.

He had presented himself as a shell-shocked war veteran seeking to connect with brothers-in-arms that had died in battle. Most of his companions around the table were, however, at least thirty years his senior, with grey hair and grieving countenances that somehow looked even more sorrowful by the light of the many candles that adorned the room.

Ms. Brown’s words did not scare John. Yes, they were pronounced in a loud, ominous voice. But while the other guests’ heads were turned, John stared at the speaker, resplendent in tall headdress and bronze-coloured robe. She gave him a hard squint that held more warning than her words.

He knew that she was a fake. And she knew that he knew. But he wasn’t scared.

The séance resumed.

“Spirits of the Great Beyond, why are you so aggrieved with our friend John?” bellowed Ms. Brown. All eyes were closed, save John’s. A cold draft wafted through the room, snuffing all the candles at once.

The there was a loud crack, and John’s world went black.

* * *

John heard a groan and quickly realized it was coming from him. He shifted, but even the slight movement made his head pound more.

“Doctor Watson, how nice to meet you!”

Gone was the fancy dress and the occult air, but the voice was the same.

“You’re a fake,” mumbled John, blinking. He tried to wipe his eyes, but found his arms secured to something. A chair.

“So are you. That moustache really isn’t much of a disguise. I recognized you immediately. I am a big fan of your blog. Especially like the one about the aluminium crutch.”

“Everybody likes that one.”

“I’m not a violent woman, Doctor Watson, just a greedy one. You’ll be safely bound until I am safely bound—for a country with no extradition treaty.”

“Not so fast!”

“Oh, thank God!” breathed John. The space was suddenly flooded with light and police officers.

“Hey!” cried Oda Mae, “get your hands off me!” as two officers seized her. Then the crowd parted, and Sherlock strode forth like a Shakespearean hero about launch into a soliloquy.

“If you know who I am, then you definitely know who he is,” said John with a chuckle. “How long have you been following me?”

“Since the start. I mean, come on, John. It’s Mummy.”

John’s chuckle turned to a laugh. “I suppose you found evidence of the fraud.”

“Not just fraud, John. The Colonel was murdered. Turns out his nurse, Miss Wilhelmina Lopez, was more than his nurse, she was his lover. After his death, she sold information about the Colonel to Ms. Brown to use for her own purposes. The two had a standing arrangement for all the elderly patients of Miss Lopez. But before his death, Miss Lopez had convinced the Colonel to ingest the venom of the Brazilian Wandering Spider in order to maintain his erection. It was an overdose of this poison that killed him. The effects so closely resemble a heart attack, no one was the wiser. Except me, of course, who found a cocoon in the bunch of bananas hanging in the Colonel’s kitchen.

“I don’t know anything about any murder!” snapped Oda Mae as she was being led away.

Sherlock retorted, “Maybe not, but you do know about kidnapping. That should put you out of the communications business for a while.” He began cutting through the ropes at John’s hands and legs. ”Lopez confessed and Mycroft’s in the process of getting all funds restored to their original owners.”

John hummed as he rubbed circulation back into his limbs. He made to stand, but wobbled. Sherlock caught him around the waist and held him close.

“Guess she was wrong. I am not going to die tonight,” said John with a dry smirk.

Sherlock bent his head to John’s ear and whispered, “Would you settle for _une petite mort_?”


	31. Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Putting on a Show. Canon is full of colourful characters, and we all know Holmes loves an audience for his deductions. Whether it's a grand gesture, breaking the fourth wall, or just the conclusion of a case in front of a crowd, make an audience part of today's entry.  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Sherlock/John  
>  **Summary:** Another morning scene in Sussex, this time before breakfast. Retirement!lock  
>  **A.N.** I would recommend participating in the Watson's Woes challenge to any fan of Watson in any form. I've enjoyed it immensely.

I spied Sherlock leaving the cottage early one morning, newspaper in hand. I soon found him by the hives, speaking in the animated fashion I had come to associate with the conclusion of our cases.

“…and so you see, it must have been the niece, and not the husband…”

“Sherlock! Are _deducing_ for the _bees_?” I asked with a chuckle.

“Genius requires an audience, John.”

“Well, I am sure that they appreciate the performance.”

“Rehearsal, my love. The true performance will be shortly at our breakfast table for the only audience that has mattered for decades.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it gallantly. “Now, let’s see if they are appreciative enough to part with some of that honeycomb you like so much…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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